If Hiruma had too much pride
by eklanis
Summary: What if Hiruma had refused Mamori's offer to become his manager? How far would he have managed to bring the team and where has his tenacity left him? Spoilers if you havent read chapters 260 and above. Rated M for Hiruma's bad language. Naturally hirumamo


Alternative title - What if Mamori hadn't been the manager?Disclaimer: I dont own these characters or eyeshield 21, if I did then these two would be all over each other by now...:DContains **spoilers** if you havent read beyond the first few chapters and Hiruma's bad languageIf Hiruma had too much pride'Fucking filthy locker room…you'd think that with this game being the one before the 'bowl, it'd look and fucking smell more presentable…'

Hiruma Youichi was in trouble, and not the kind of trouble like the mundane shit he had to deal with everyday: the monkey's loud yelling; the obnoxious 'ha, haa, haa's; the fucking fatty's soft moments; the old man's attitude; the incoherent grunts from the fucking hedgehog; the rare rebellious punter determined to escape from the control of his little black book…Surprisingly though, the main cause of most of his grief, Anezaki Mamori, or 'the fucking creampuff,' hadn't said a word.

She had been disconcertingly quiet recently. Normally, she'd be shouting at him from her front row seat in the stands but it had been radio silence ever since she'd discovered Eyeshield 21's true identity after the Poseidon game. Now, Hiruma wasn't a religious man but God only knew how the Devilbats had managed to keep it a secret from her for that long. In his more contemplative moments Hiruma had half-admitted to himself that he'd kept her in the dark because he liked having the upper hand on her for once - she was a 'perfect darling' for sure but a radiant angel can bear its fangs when it needs to…sating itself on a celestial bed and preying on garbage…

Wait…was that a _Hamlet_ quote? What the hell?

He was missing the fucking point.

It wasn't the time to get caught up in a mental debate about the fucking creampuff, nor start quoting Shakespeare to add some spice to his already violent path to the changing rooms.

Hiruma had just escaped out of the medic's hut, kicking his all his fucking stuff along the way - his helmet was scratched and dented again and that meant more money to be extorted from the principal….

Fan-fucking-tastic...not that he didn't enjoy it mind you, but the pain in his arm was making him want to puke today and yesterday's food all over the blurry floor.

To hell with using his right hand for now. He didn't even have the energy to maintain his ear-to ear grin, instead, face contorted in a tense and thinly-veiled mask of pain, Hiruma furiously entered the changing rooms, groping clumsily on the top of his locker with his left hand for the taping he always used to bind his arms and calves.

'Fuuuucckk…'

Standing was like trying to hold up the weight of the world - he didn't envy Atlas at that point, but then again, Atlas didn't just get tackled by that fucking giant…actually, Hiruma wouldn't have minded swapping places for a few minutes. Even with a broken arm, Hiruma figured that Atlas could probably take down that Gao - and according what he just heard from the commentator, would probably be doing a better job than the fucking fatty…what a piece of work is man! The paragon of animals and the quintessence of the fucking dust he was scuffing around on the floor.

His mind was wavering again.

'Fuck…eyes front, fucking demon,' he muttered and with his back pressed hard against the locker, he began the laborious process of bandaging his arms, or at least he tried to.

He moved his right arm a millimetre and pain shot up the entire length of his limb and creased up the side of his face. Pausing, (he'd barely begun) he leant his head back against the locker and forced the rising bile back down his throat. Since when did he get this fucking _weak_? Another part of his mind cackled: when have you ever been _that_ fucking strong?

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The shocks to his skull were helping - just slightly. He may not be that powerful physically, but mentally he could ride anything out. So he had thought.Hiruma squinted into the sickly yellow fluorescent lights that bathed his environment in an uncomfortable, nauseating hue. Eyes closed was _definitely_ the way to go. In the middle of psyching himself up for the flood of pain that was going to come when the time came to move his arm, Hiruma's mind started wandering again.

How did it end up like this?

He was Deimon's control tower; the blonde satan child with the little black book; mind as sharp as a razor; blackjack king; the quarterback and leader of the Devilbats…he was always careful, careful, planned, precise…in the middle of all his calculations, where had he slipped up?

He heard a roar from the crowd outside - _fuck_, the brats were slipping…Sena would only go so far as quarterback - if only he could throw as well as he ran! The fucking Anezaki must be having a fit…

Hiruma snorted in his mind: fucking Anezaki…that was funny…to fuck, or not to fuck…not that it was much of a question - she was one hell of a looker - hell, it was hard to say no when she'd insisted on becoming the manager to watch over Sena but Hiruma would be thrice damned before he'd let some disciplinary committee, straight A, creampuff scoffer run his team - _his _team!

When they'd found Dokurobu in America, Hiruma had felt a wave of relief, finally realising he wouldn't have to take the strain of being both captain _and_ manager anymore.

No such luck.

When it came down to it, Dokurobu was a fucking drunk. It was lucky that there was a Macdonald's every five metres in America; the old git was a shit cook as well as a useless manager. Hiruma snorted - the team had actually _gained_ weight from that diet despite all the exercise they were doing.

So Hiruma had set his pointed teeth and hiked his burden higher on his back. He stayed up later, doing the paperwork and the videotapes - his slaves didn't have a fucking clue about what he wanted out of the film. It was lucky that he could just blackmail all the teachers to give him 'A's - not that he ever needed to study anyway.

Hiruma knew he had a fucking good team; they were all filled with energy and drive to get to the the 'bowl and it was his fucking duty - no, _honour_, to take them the whole fucking way…_If_ he could get his fucking arm to move.

Now Hiruma is one who has a high tolerance to pain…he's had his fair share of cuts and bruises and internal bleeding and lacerations from his stint of being quarterback. But concussion is one thing and getting tackled by Gao is another. Of course, he could have blackmailed a nurse to tape his arms for him - or even one of the fucking doctors.

But Hiruma is also one who has a very high sense of pride. If he can't do it then no other fuckwit will; he can only rely on himself. 'Maybe that's where I slipped up…' In a way, learning to work with other people in a team has been good for him. But he'll still refuse to show weakness; no expression, gesture, comment that hasn't been deliberated beforehand nor uncontrolled.

The perfect act.

Only, this visage was starting to shatter - had shattered the moment the first jab of pain had reached his neurons. 'Where's a fucking manager when you need one??' Hiruma spat curses from between his gritted teeth, eyes squeezed almost tight enough to block out the yellow light. He _could _have had a manager - Anezaki had _offered_ herself but no - him and his fucking pride had turned her down. But now was _not_ the time to reminisce: he had to get a fucking move on with his fucking arm.

He could only rely on himself.

HIruma grabbed the tape in his teeth and started wrapping it around his left arm…'SHIIIT! Motherfucking fuckwit taping!!' It was going all over the place, no support, no help, no control, no _help_, they were going to lose the fucking game just because he couldn't get his fucking act together and figure out how to bind his fucking left arm with fucking tape and god knows how he was going to do his fucking right arm if it was fucking hurting this mu-

'Hiruma.'

He froze at the sound of that voice…No, he thought angrily, you are not going to have a fucking breakdown in front of Anezaki Mamori. He almost flinched when she put her cool hands on his back, 'Let me do it.' It wasn't a question and he wasn't in a position to argue but he did make a point of looking at the floor while she attended to him. 'You do realise that the nurse almost had a seizure when she discovered you gone, right?' Her eyes flicked to his face; he looked at the floor. 'By all means you shouldn't even be standing at the moment.' Hiruma snorted; Mamori smiled, 'I knew you'd try get back to the game even if your leg was broken; you're very stubborn like that…' she secured the rest of the tape and gestured to his right arm. 'I'm concerned about that one though. 'From what I saw, it looked like he got you good.'

'No shit, Sherlock.' His voice is edgy and jars against the air…shit, he didn't mean it to come out that way, but then again, whenever they happened to speak to each other it was usually to trade insults so he had no idea how to speak civilly with her - or anyone else for that matter.

Mamori ignored the tone, 'I'd normally protest against you getting up and back on to the field but you wouldn't listen anyway…you want something to bite on? This is going to hurt,' she grasps his right arm lightly and begins to bind it.

Yes it hurts; it fucking hurts but for some reason, less so than when he was alone…Hiruma gave a low hiss of protest. Mamori glanced at him, 'I'm sorry, but you're lucky I know first aid; Sena was always getting into trouble as a kid.' Hiruma rolled his slanted eyes - fantastic, he was now Sena's substitue... Once Mamori finished, she got up and started collecting his gear together with a puzzled expression on her face. 'Now you're going to have to tell me how this all works…' She held his pads as if they were some foreign creature.

Hiruma stood up suddenly, 'Why are you here?' he looked straight at her.

Was that a blush? 'Because I knew no one else would dare - you don't want…wouldn't let anyone…else…'

'What made you think I'd let you of all people? I already turned you down for the manager job, fucking creampuff.'

'And we can see how well that's turned out for you.'

Hiruma's ears burned, he'd expect a comment like that from the fucking old man but didn't think she'd be capable...He scowled, 'We're doing just fucking fine, fucking - '

'You're looking thin these days, Hiruma.'

He stopped mid-sentence again; it wasn't untrue. Yes, perhaps he'd lost weight but when you're running around after a bunch of fucking kids and trying to manage a football team, taking care of yourself is the least of your worries. He reverted to safer territory: 'You didn't answer my question: what made you think I'd let you help me?'

She met his gaze straight on this time; the pit of his stomach flamed, 'What made you think you'd be able to refuse - given the blow you just received?'

He lurched over her, features marked harshly in the yellow light, 'Kekeke, fucking Anezaki, you should be afraid of me even with my broken arm…'

She blanched slightly but stood her ground, 'Should I? No matter what you do, say, act, you're still only human after all. Furiously and idiotically proud, yes, but still just a run-of-the-mill stubborn ass.'

Hiruma stopped again for a second; she continued, 'Aren't you?' She was smiling slightly.

Hiruma lowered his hackles and flashed her that grin of his, 'What do you think?'

She blushes again - she does blush very prettily and helps to suit him during their stalemate as he dictates what goes where. He's surprised at how careful she is - taking extra care not to jolt his arm as she draws it through the sleeve; checking that she isn't hurting him by casting furtive glances at his placid face. Hiruma's mind cackles again, she should be undressing him, not putting on his fucking clothes. He does, however, tuck in his own pants; he doesn't want her hands getting that close... not _yet_ anyway. She did seem slightly disappointed though and he is instantly amused - what's this? Is she a pervert creampuff scoffer then? The whole process takes 7 minutes, 45 seconds and at the end of it all, Mamori stands near the entry to the field with his helmet in her hands hugged close to her chest.

'You're going to have to put it on for me, fucking creampuff,'

She glares at him slightly and hesitates, 'Hiruma…'

He gives her a skeptical look, 'Hn.'

'Even if you're not 100 at the moment, I still believe you guys can win this - you've got more than just a good throw, Hiruma. I've seen the way you manipulate people; football's part physical part psychological warfare isn't it? Also, everyone wants this victory, you want it, Sena wants it…I want it too…' her eyes are flashing with something that looks like bloodlust.He knew they could make it - would make it, but hearing it from someone like her; someone he barely knew; who complained about Sena, watched every game from the sidelines, occasionally dropped by with snacks for the team… he could force his fucking arm to move.

He should have made her fucking manager at the beginning.

She stood there in front of him, eyes aflame, legs strong, lips slightly parted and breath fogging the surface of his helmet. Hiruma realised that even though she'd always been in the distance, during any break he got he'd never stopped looking for her. It was as if he'd subconsciously acknowledged that he needed her silently supportive presence but could never, ever admit it out loud.

What a fucking ego.

'Mamori…' she looked shocked, 'when this is over, you and…and I…have things to say to one another…'

It sounded the absolute epitome of ridiculousness to his ears but Mamori met his eyes with a steady gaze, 'Yes,' she said, 'we do.' He would have kissed her then and there, and, if he had, she would have responded. But this one time acknowledged, like so many other times unacknowledged before, was the wrong time and at the wrong place.

'Put my helmet on, Anezaki; I've got a fucking game to finish.'


End file.
